


All Shall Fade

by Loreyulia



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Eventual Smut, Eventual graphic depictions of war, Five Stages of Grief, Friendship building within the company, Healing, M/M, Mix of the book and movie verse, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:58:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1499201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loreyulia/pseuds/Loreyulia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A foolhardy quest to slay a dragon, and reclaim a home that did not belong to him, will lead Bilbo Baggins of The Shire out his door, and into a world he could never even find within his books. It leads him to a Quest where he will encounter love, friendship, betrayal, and loss- and all of these things become cogs in the never ending wheel of the hobbit's life. Now, within the last homely house, Bilbo decides to tell his true tale. One of love won, and lost within the blink of an eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

All Shall Fade

Prologue: An Untold Tale

Thin-skinned, knobbly, wrinkled fingers caressed the fine, gossamer mail one final time before handing it over. There was a light, a look of wonder in Frodo's gentle blue eyes; a look Bilbo himself must have had on his care-worn face, all those years ago when he was presented such a finery. A fond smile lifted the heavy creases around the ancient Hobbit's mouth, memories of happier days full of adventure, full of joy, of sorrow and loss...

It was all he could do when faced with these thoughts of yesteryears- smile, and tuck them deep, back into the painful recesses of his heart. Bilbo's fingers twitched instinctively towards his waistcoat pocket, but he caught himself just in time; after all, the reassuring weight of cold, smooth gold was no longer his cross to bear. He idly wondered if Frodo even had The Ring, or if the boy lost it, or merely left it at home for safe keeping.

"Uncle... are you really giving me such a priceless gift?" Frodo's voice was filled with trepidation, and no small amount of shocked awe. Pale, smooth, healthy and young fingers slid reverently along the cool Mithril now grasped delicately in his hands. Big, blue eyes beseeched Bilbo, after such a long pause and no reply. The old Hobbit had to mentally, and almost physically shake himself; creeping thoughts of piercing Blue eyes and haughty speech, a little unwelcome in the face of his Nephew's presence.

For now at least, Bilbo could try and forget about that grand adventure that had changed him so much- he could try to forget about the Lonely King, Under the Mountain. "Yes my dear boy," Bilbo's voice wheezed a bit, a tight weight settling uncomfortably in his chest. "I have no need for it now... besides, it could go to better use possibly saving your life, instead of staying locked away in some chest." Frodo's smile grew even brighter, as he admired that fine, Dwarvish treasure. "Come now, try it on!" The old Hobbit cheered, waving an enthusiastic hand at his Nephew. Frodo did not need telling twice, and soon he was hastily unbuttoning the sleek wooden buttons on his cream colored shirt.

He shucked it off moments later, revealing practically flawless skin; save for the puckered scar that marred his flesh, given to him by a Morgul blade. A hitch of unbridled worry, and anger bubbled in the pit of Bilbo's stomach at the sight- but, that quickly faded when he caught sunlight, glinting innocuously off of a thin, golden ring hanging by a chain around Frodo's delicate neck. His breath caught some where in between his chest and his throat at the sight; the plain, simple little thing drawing Bilbo's undivided attention. It swung back and forth in lazy, hypnotizing arcs as Frodo moved- working on shimmying the shirt of Mithril over his unruly mop of curls, all Hobbit's were known for. After that, there it lay out in the open, innocent and tempting... that silly, simple little ring.

A black tunnel blurred around the edges of Bilbo's vision; not from old age as one might expect, but because nothing mattered when faced with the maddening desire the ring had inevitably provoked within him. Quiet, hesitant, Frodo's voice broke the silence; like popping a bubble devoid of sound. "Uncle... are you, alright?" It took more willpower than the old Hobbit cared to admit, to pull his gaze away from the lustrous shine of gold, and meet his Nephew's gaze- full of concern, and a touch of sadness.

A thick fog mired down Bilbo's thoughts, making him feel sluggish and not entirely there. For a few silent moments he said nothing in reply, trying to gather his wits about him once more. "I'm... I'm fine, Frodo." Bilbo's weary, stormy blue eyes closed heavily; a thin smile stretched across his face, ready to break at any moment. When he opened his eyes again, Frodo was standing much closer, a whisper of smooth skin trailing along the old Hobbit's knuckles. It was a welcome comfort, an anchor to help keep himself weighted in reality- not traipsing off in tangled memories long since passed, like he was ought to do.

Yet Bilbo didn't let it go unnoticed, how close The Ring was to him now; how he could merely reach out, and snatch it in a clawed fist, if he wanted. The urge was great, completely blotting out all else once again, and it scared him a little... and Bilbo Baggins hadn't been truly scared in a long, long time. A few nervous licks to wet his dry, cracked lips before the Hobbit wheezed out, "Frodo... if it isn't too much trouble, may I- may I hold The Ring, one more time?"

A worried crease between his Nephew's delicate brow, marred the boy's innocent features; Frodo's slim digits clasping protectively around The Ring, as he backed away a pace or two. Fierce, unbridled anger and longing ignited like a wild fire, inside the Hobbit's chest- a manic need to claim, to hurt, to take back what was precious. It was a madness, and some where- distantly- Bilbo was aware of this fact. It shouldn't be there, he should have been above it- especially after he had seen so vividly what obsession could do to a person... how it could corrupt the body and mind so wholly, leaving you an empty shell of who you used to be.

Despite the lingering warnings in the back of Bilbo's mind, he quickly lunged forward, toward his Nephew, and more importantly, The Ring; a ferocious snarl, tearing passed his twisted lips. The brief moment before his withered hands could ensnare The Ring once more, a rather vivid and terrifying memory flashed like a vision before Bilbo's eyes. Cold, blustery wind almost howled like a hurricane, even in the warm, sunlit room the two Hobbit's inhabited- the memory was so strong. It was becoming hard to breathe, a claw-like grip tightening around his frail neck; the feeling of weightlessness as he was lifted high into the air, and dangled over a balcony and to his death. It was enough to stop Bilbo in his tracks, the air knocked from his lungs in a grim parody of the time when he had been thrown against the stone walls of Erebor, left to gasp for breath and trying not to fall apart because of the coldness in those vacant, blue eyes.

For a few, panicked moments, Frodo had recoiled from the person he trusted most in the world- breathing hard, and willing himself not to be afraid. Through Bilbo's own haze of half remembered fear, he admired his Nephew's compassion, and ability to try and see the good in everything; even when it might have been kinder in the end, if the young boy lashed out at him, for his foolishness. "I'm... I'm sorry my boy," Bilbo finally managed, his thin shoulders slumping, like the weight of the world had some how settled cruelly upon them. He studiously pulled his heated gaze away from Frodo, his bright eyes going glassy like they always did, when Bilbo went faraway and to a place his Nephew could only guess at. The old Hobbit turned away, no longer able to face Frodo, not wanting the boy witnessing the anguish he knew would be written in every line, and heavy crease on his face.

There was only a brief pause, before Frodo's delicate hand was placed upon his Uncle's trembling shoulder. He didn't say anything, just let the silent action speak for itself- but indeed, it spoke volumes. It spoke of Frodo's kindness, of his understanding heart, but most of all it gave Bilbo the reassurance of his Nephew's unyielding love. Indeed, the comforting weight on his shoulder spoke louder than any words ever could.

—

The sun was just beginning to fade below the line of trees, that seemed to expand onwards from Rivendell for an age at least, when Frodo finally took his leave. Orange and yellow light poured into the spacious room from the open entryway, that led out onto a balcony, giving the Hobbit a never-ending view of green forests and golden skies. Bilbo stood out on the balcony, head tipped back, and exalting in the last remaining rays of the evening sun. The warmth brought a reluctant smile to his face, because for this small moment at least, he could push aside his dark thoughts and bathe in the light.

Today seemed to be a day for memories, the Hobbit thought wryly to himself, as a long faded remembrance came unbidden to his thoughts. Later he would blame this whole ordeal upon the familiar scenery, but in the moment it felt good to think about the past; some thing he tried every day to fight off, each time giving in sooner than he liked to admit. If he listened hard enough, he could just barely make out two voices joined together in harmonious peals of laughter, carried on the wind. The answering thunder of a particularly grumpy Dwarf, quickly following the young Prince's mischievous snickers. An admonishment for the two young Dwarf's sat at the precipice of Bilbo's tongue, a warning of how it was rude to pinch some one's nose while they were asleep; but it quickly died, and he opened his eyes to find himself quite alone.

A tiny, sad smile gave life to Bilbo's lips as he shook his head, knowing how unwise it was to indulge in memories of The Quest. The sun didn't seem as comforting, or warm any more, so the old Hobbit hobbled his way back inside, his heavy gaze focused on one thing, and one thing alone- and this time, it wasn't The Ring.

At the foot of his ornate, wooden bed there sat a chest for keeping his possessions, out of mind and out of sight. It was the same chest that earlier in the day, he had retrieved Sting and the Mithril shirt, to give to Frodo; but Bilbo had quickly shut the lid, before he was tempted to unearth more relics of the past, best left hidden in the dark. He stood before it now, fingers ghosting over the dark, intricately carved wood imbued with Elvish runes and spindly vines. Bilbo heaved a defeated sigh, already resigned to the momentary lapse of judgement and indulgences of his weakness.

With great care, Bilbo lifted the lid to the chest, the creaking sound of unused hinges, filling up the silence. An assortment of things lay within its secret depths, from old clothes the Hobbit merely kept out of sentiment, to the odd bit of Dwarven treasure; but most important of all the keepsakes inside the chest, was the leather bound book he was now searching for. Reverently he lifted the old book, finally bringing its pages out into the open air, in what felt like centuries. A wizened finger brushed softly along the supple leather, tracing the sharp, Dwarvish script inlaying the cover. Bilbo's thin lips pulled up into a tiny smile at the sight, even after all these years.

He could still clearly envision the young Dwarf who had given him such a priceless treasure; could still recall the ruddy copper of his hair, or the faint traces of ink, always smudged somewhere on his person. Yes, even after the many years that passed since The Quest, Bilbo could remember Ori's face more vividly than some of his own family.

After only a moment more, Bilbo slowly cracked open the care-worn spine; his smile widening just a fraction. The delicate, yet confident charcoal lines that lay within the book were so painfully familiar, it almost hurt to look at them. Bilbo's own face, rendered in ink and charcoal, stared back at him from a time, long since passed. He was much younger in that picture, more naïve and unaware of the cruelties of the world. The man in that drawing could still see a light, even in the deepest darkness- he could still believe in a happy ending to every tale. But in the end, like Gandalf had so wisely warned, he had changed; and to this day, Bilbo Baggins could not say if it was for the better, or not.

His legs were starting to throb with a dull ache, right around his kneecaps, a painful testament to the Hobbit's old age. So, Bilbo shuffled slowly over to the sturdy armchair one of the Elves so kindly placed by the desk in his room; it was a nice, comfortable place to sit, while he worked on finishing his book. Slowly, and carefully, Bilbo lowered his weary, aching bones into the plush embrace the chair enveloped him in. With a dreamy sigh of contentment upon his lips, the Hobbit settled himself down for what would be several hours at least. The book now lay in his lap, and with gentle care, he turned the page.

Two Dwarf's resided side by side in this picture, almost identical, lop-sided grins full of mischief gracing the brothers' youthful features. Fílí was on the left, his broader face holding a hint more seriousness and maturity than his younger brother, Kílí. Where the blond brother was stouter with swarthy skin, the brunette was slight- with skin as pale as starlight. The two were as night and day in appearance, with only matching personalities to betray the close bond they shared as siblings. They each had a companionable arm slung around the other's shoulder, and laughter twinkling in their eyes.

A fierce pang of sadness twinged in Bilbo's chest at the sight of the two young, Dwarf Prince's who smiled up at him; and it seemed for just a moment, that they were in the room with him, laughing at one of the Hobbit's many stories he had told them by firelight. Bilbo's fingers touched the drawing gently, running along the length of the paper- his rough skin making a soft rasping sound against the parchment. So young- the Hobbit thought sadly to himself- too young...

Bilbo blinked back the tears that had snuck up on him, in his moment of vulnerable carelessness. And since it hurt so damn much, he decidedly turned the page once more. Balin's sharp, beaky features greeted the Hobbit this time- a pensive look captured expertly by Ori- on the Eldest Dwarf's face. The barest hint of a smile peaked out through Balin's long beard, and Bilbo remembered fondly the Old Dwarf's kindness towards him, even from the beginning.

The rest of the pages revealed his companions in short time. From the fierce and powerful Dwalin- younger Brother to Balin- to the round, kindly face of gentle Bombur. Bifur, an Orc axe stuck permanently in his skull, causing him to speak only the secret language of Khûzdul- looked wild and intimidating. Bofur, with his silly hat and carefree smile, a wily playfulness etched into every line of his face. Next was Nori, a fierce glimmer in his crafty eyes, and then his older Brother Dori- who looked slightly agitated by the world around him, as per usual.

Of course, Ori's own picture might not have been included in the book, after all it was rather difficult to draw one's own self- if not for one of the Mirkwood Elves sketching out the youngest Dwarf. A sheepish smile was upon Ori's face, but it did little to diminish the fiery thirst for knowledge, that always shone brightly in the boy's warm, brown eyes. Oin and Gloin were next, two Brother's full of boisterous good humor, and unfathomable love.

Bilbo inhaled sharply, scrunching his eyes closed as he turned to the next page- a painful clenching in his stomach and heart, making his palms cold and clammy. He tried to breathe as evenly as possible when he opened his eyes, tears welling hotly like he knew they would. "Oh, Thorin..." Bilbo whispered, the name falling from his lips like a long forgotten prayer. Thorin's smouldering gaze stared back intensely, his shapely mouth set in grim determination. The proud Dwarf looked every inch the fierce, and Noble King that he was; and it sent a pang of longing through Bilbo.

The Hobbit's hands began to tremble, so many memories rushing forth all at once- until they became a muddled mess of mixed emotions, and thoughts. Thrilling memories of racing through The Shire, elation at the prospect of adventure spurring him through the winding roads of Hobbiton- quickly melded into cold, agonizing fear as Bilbo riddled for his life within the dark. Rough hands gently cradling his face in the throes of passion, a calloused thumb tracing the sensitive tip of a tapered ear; turned limp and lifeless in his grasp, as he wailed like a wounded animal inside that stifling tent. For every happy memory, there seemed to be a soul crushing counterpart- two sides of the ill-fated coin that had become Bilbo Baggins' life.

He wanted to scream. To cry. To smile and laugh all at once...

It was a little draining, to feel all of those emotions at one time, but Bilbo had spent many years learning how to keep them all in check. Yet... placing his thoughts and feelings in tiny boxes, shoved into the dark recesses of his mind, well- it just didn't sound as appealing today. And as Fate would have it, because Fate was a terribly wicked and wonderful thing, the Hobbit's eyes landed on his well used quill and bottle of ink. He looked between the writing utensils and the book- with so many unfilled pages still in it- in his hands. Some thing clicked then, like a puzzle piece finally finding its place after many failed attempts.

Slowly, still a little unsure if completely dredging up the past was a wise course of action, Bilbo found an empty page and grabbed his brown feathered quill; dipping the nib into the black ink carefully. His reasoning was sound, because the Hobbit was feeling overwhelmed, and when he felt like the world was swallowing him whole, Bilbo Baggins had to write.

He paused for only a moment, to gather his thoughts into some form of semblance, because damn it all, he was a writer! And he was going to give the world a fine tale, the likes of which, it had never seen.


	2. Chapter One: Some Thing Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo Baggins of Bag End is not necessarily content with his life.

All Shall Fade

Chapter One: Something Unexpected

There was not a thing in this wide world that beat a nice, warm spring day in the Shire. The morning sun shone brightly in the pale blue sky, a few fluffy clouds drifting by here and there. Birdsong, and the laughter of little Fauntlings, melded together in a cacophony of peaceful sounds– after all, here in the Shire, there was not a single thing to worry about; well, if you didn't count spying upon your neighbors of course. No, life was complacent and calm for the Children of the Kindly West, and every Hobbit who did not reside Over the River, was immensely proud of that fact.

Hobbits were creatures of comfort, right down to the very basis of the phrase. They did not meddle in the affairs of Middle-Earth, preferring to stay strictly within the borders of their Homeland. Only the adventurous few, most of them Took's, ever ventured further than the Four-Farthing's. No respectable Hobbit's ever even dreamed of leaving the Shire; especially if you were well-to-do, and comfortable with your life.

So it would be the height of lunacy if some one, say maybe a Wandering Wizard perhaps, came looking there of all places, for some one to share in an Adventure. Yet on this most beautiful and peaceful of morning's, that was exactly the situation Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, was faced with.

Not more than a few minutes ago, he had been enjoying a relaxing smoke in his front yard, soaking up the sun like a freshly planted sapling. And now he was being accosted by a deranged Wizard, trying to fill his head with utter rubbish! An adventure, Bilbo scoffed at the thought, and began to wonder if the old man at his gate had even heard of a Hobbit before. If he had well, he was more daft than the Hobbit first assessed– going up to him of all people and offering such a notion. In fact, Bilbo decided to tell the Wizard exactly what he thought of this, "Adventuring," business.

"We don't want any adventures here, thank you! You might try Over the Hill or Across the Water." Bilbo waved a flippant hand in the general direction of the aforementioned places. "Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things– make you late for dinner!" He felt quite proud of himself, telling the Wizard off, and informing him how unwanted his whole affair would be in these parts.

A flash of irritation sparked through the man's grey-blue eyes, but as quickly as it appeared, it vanished without a trace. Bilbo puffed at his pipe, sifting through his mail, and trying his damnedest to look too busy for company. He cast a few furtive glances between the Wizard and his letters and mumbled one last decisive, "Good morning," before deciding that being polite, was getting him no where.

And he would have been nice and safe inside his cozy Hobbit Hole, not thinking of Adventures and strange Wizards, if it was not for the man bringing up his Mother's and well– his own name for that matter. Bilbo stared at the stranger more intently now, taking in his appearance thoughtfully. Yes, there was some thing definitely familiar about the grey cloak, and the pointy hat... now where had he seen this Wizard before?

Gandalf... the man, though as cryptically as he put it, said his name was Gandalf. The name, the long grey everything, and the twinkling eyes– they all melded together into one cohesive memory at last. Fireworks, Bilbo recalled a tiny smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Yes, he remembered now... long mid-summer's spent trailing around the Farthing's into the early hours of the night, only to race home for supper carrying the badges of a few scraped knees and covered in dirt. Days filled with adventure where he climbed trees to look for Elves, where he dreamed of traveling all of Middle-Earth (well Mordor excluded for obvious reasons) so he could come home to the Shire with so many stories to tell they could fill up a life time.

Bilbo shook his head to rid himself of the memories, but couldn't shake away the smile that lingered on his lips. "Not Gandalf the Wandering Wizard who made such excellent fireworks? Old Took used to have them on Midsummer's Eve." The Hobbit couldn't help the way he knew his eyes sparkled with interest; memories of his childhood making him feel giddy and sentimental. He laughed, a tiny bright sound that almost startled himself, because he had not meant to do that.

The Hobbit quickly furrowed his brow, trying in earnest to stamp out the Took inside him and replace it once more with the respectable Baggins. "No idea you were still in business." Bilbo quipped dryly, hoping a more refined attitude towards the situation would deter the Wizard, and make him just go away!

Yet when it came to Gandalf the Grey, nothing could really stop him once his mind was set on some thing; a trait that Bilbo Baggins would later loathe, and admire in equal parts. No, instead of sending him off with his tail between his legs, the Hobbit's words only made Gandalf smile as he replied, "And where else should I be?" Bilbo merely continued to puff at his pipe in silence, his curious stormy blue eyes shifting around uncomfortably. "All the same, I'm pleased to find you remember some thing about me, even if it's only my fireworks.

"Well, that's decided. It will be very good for you... and most amusing for me. I shall inform the others." The Wizard seemed to puff up at that, the barest hint of a smile peaking through his long beard. Bilbo's thoughts were thrown into a tizzy, as he tried to keep up with what Gandalf said.

"Inform who? Wait, wha– no! No. No, wait." The Hobbit stamped one of his furry feet, and waved his hands around as if they were bird wings flapping in the air. "We do not want any adventures here, thank you— not today! Not–" Bilbo stopped himself from saying the word, "Ever," his throat closing unpleasantly.

Instead he breathed deeply, and mumbled one last feeble, "Good morning!" Before scurrying back into the relative safely of his Hobbit Hole, and slammed the door shut for good measure. The Hobbit leaned against his round door for a few moments, standing stock still in an attempt to hear if the Wizard had left. There was an odd scratching sound at the door for a few moments, and then it was gone– almost as if Bilbo had imagined it.

By the time Bilbo Baggins deemed it safe to leave his home, it was well into the afternoon. The sun had climbed higher, until it was in the exact center of the sky and if it wasn't for the pleasantly cool breeze, today would have been unnaturally warm for Shire weather. The Hobbit honestly did not want to leave the safety and comforts of his house, but necessity drove him out the door wearing his favorite blue jacket and a wary expression. He expected the Grey Wizard Gandalf to pop up from behind every nearby hedge or shrub, which was ridiculous since there was no way the Istari could crouch behind some thing so Hobbit sized, and shout, "Surprise!" It was all a little nerve wracking, and Bilbo didn't quite relax even when he finally reached the Marketplace.

Market days in the Shire were always the most pleasant of events, aside from parties. The center of Hobbiton was packed with brightly colored tents and flags, huge wooden tables, and hundreds of smiling Hobbit's. It was noisy and chaotic, but in that comforting way huge family gatherings in small homes were. Little Fauntling's got together and played games like 'ring-around' or 'tag' while the parents gossiped amongst each other– always keeping one eye out for their babes.

Bilbo smiled fondly when he walked passed one of the Shire's new Mother's, who sat in a wooden chair gently rocking her baby, only stopping to wave in his direction and say, "Mornin' Mister Baggins!" He only nodded in reply but she paid it no mind, even if a proper response would be to go over and chat for a while, because that is what Hobbit's did. Bilbo was thankful that most of Hobbiton respected him enough to leave him be. Though it wasn't because he disliked his friends and neighbors, on the contrary he rather cherished most of them, it was... well, it was hard to pretend every thing in his life was sunshine and daisies just because he had a nice home and a respectable name.

Each and every day he woke up to an empty home, and it left him feeling a little hollow inside when he couldn't hear his Mother singing in the kitchen while she made second breakfast, or be able to sit down by his Father and chat about their Garden. No, Bag End now had one sole occupant, and that was Bilbo Baggins– a Hobbit who once yearned to leave the Shire and go on dashing adventures to Rivendell or beyond, but now stayed behind in fear of losing what few things he had left to remind him of his parents. He knew the Hobbits pitied him, and that it was one of the biggest reasons why they left him alone, but he didn't really mind it as much as a respectable bachelor Hobbit should.

Bilbo shook his head, hating the creeping melancholy that ate away at him, making him even more different than his kin. The Hobbit plastered on his best care-free smile, before going to haggle over the freshest piece of trout that he could find.

There was a panicked hurriedness to his steps as Bilbo made his way home. After the little incident in the marketplace, where he thought that the Wizard had finally tracked him down to bother him again with his "Adventuring business," the Hobbit couldn't help but feel the need to proceed with caution. For an absurd moment he even wished that he had some way to make himself invisible, but scoffed at the idea as quickly as he thought of it– after all, unless he was secretly a Hobbit sized Wizard, the notion was utterly ridiculous.

The sun was just beginning to set behind the rolling green hills of the Shire, when Bilbo finally shut his door behind him, and puttered into the kitchen to start making supper; even if his dinner at the Green Dragon had been filling, all that walking renewed his voracious Hobbit appetite. He brought out his heavy cast iron skillet and placed it over the fire, melting two pats of butter in it before adding the trout. While the fish cooked, he started setting the table, and only paused long enough to flip the fish before it burned. In only fifteen minutes, supper was served hot and steaming on his plate. He stared blankly at his single plate of food, willing himself not to look at the empty chairs on either side of the table.

Bilbo blinked back the stinging tears in his eyes, and sat down gingerly in his chair. His Mother's chiding voice in his head reminded him to tuck his napkin into his shirtfront so his clothes wouldn't get dirty- and so he did just that. Then he smiled sadly as he recalled his Father teaching him the best way to season trout; and so he grabbed the nearby lemon wedge and squeezed the juice all over the fish, before sprinkling some sea salt over it. Bilbo Baggins then sent his silent prayers to Yavanna and was about to dig in solemnly into his supper; when an unexpected ring chimed from his front door.

~T.B.C.~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry every one that this took so long to write, I've been incredibly busy and on my days where I'm not I've been obsessed with my two new 3DS games and reading Sherlock fan fiction... also working on an RP with redroses100 that we'll be turning into a story; it's a very dark Johniarty and I'm very excited. :3 I hope that this can be good enough until I write chapter 3 in which Bilbo meets the Dwarves. Ta ta for now!

**Author's Note:**

> This has merely been the prologue, and I hope that you can stick around for more in the future- though expect updates at least once a month since I am rather busy with other stories as well. 
> 
> You can also find me over on fan fiction dot net, by the same pen name.


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